Killer Getaway by Amy Korman Page A

the notion of Midwesterners banding together to build a house for the needy. It’s not worth trying to convince Joe that worthy causes are in fact worthy.
    â€œThere was a big indoor barbecue party after the charity thingy for all the volunteers, which was covered by the local paper,” Joe explained. “Obviously, Holly isn’t going to bang nails or whatever at Habitat for Humanity, but she could have gone to Indiana for the weekend. Instead, she told Howard she couldn’t come because she had to help Jessica choose new cocktail napkins for Vicino.”
    â€œPicking out napkins probably took about four minutes,” I said, concerned. “Maybe she should have gone to Indiana!”
    â€œThat won’t happen,” Joe shook his head. “She wouldn’t go anyway, because she doesn’t go to barbecues. I mean, where ­people are eating food like ribs and cheeseburgers. Plus, it’s seven degrees right now in Indianapolis, so the barbecue was held in a local college field house, and that sealed the deal. Holly told Howard that she never went to a field house while she was actually enrolled in college, and she isn’t about to start now.” Joe was still zooming down the Dixie Highway, which was all warehouses and car repair shops at this point. “Plus, Holly claims she only gets on planes that are headed either south or east, like in the direction of the Bahamas,” he added.
    â€œDidn’t she and Howard go to California two summers ago?” I asked.
    â€œCalifornia’s different. It’s the other states that are an issue,” Joe said.
    I rolled my eyes at this.
    â€œSo what did she see on Google Images?” I asked.
    â€œShe saw the daughter of the garbage guy from Indianapolis,” said Joe simply. He expertly pulled into a metered parking spot outside a row of antiques stores, turned off the Caddy, and, after scrolling through his phone for a second, handed the iPhone to me. “That’s the girl,” he said. “At the barbecue.”
    I had to admit, squinting in the sun at Joe’s phone, the girl looked pretty fabulous.
    â€œI was picturing someone different in the garbage heiress role,” I said to Joe. We exchanged concerned glances. “This girl looks like she just left Bergdorf’s. And she’s got, well . . .” With my hands in front of my own sadly underwhelming chest, I made the universal gesture that conveys large boobs.
    The photo on Joe’s phone was part of the local paper’s coverage of the society scene in Indianapolis, and it looked like the indoor barbecue after the Habitat for Humanity event had been a major event. The damning photo was captioned, “Howard Jones, who recently acquired Stewart Waste Management, with Marty, Bubba, and Dawnelle Stewart.”
    Marty and Bubba looked like your basic good-­looking, golf-­playing, well-­off Midwestern guys in Brooks Brothers dress shirts and khakis. Dawnelle was another matter: She appeared to be in her mid-­twenties. She had long and lustrous hair. Her face had adorably large blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a sweet, hopeful expression. She had on what I think was a Dolce & Gabbana bustier dress. And she had a lot of bust to bustier.
    â€œHoward might as well be doing Habitat for Humanity with Kate Upton,” agreed Joe. “It’s horrible for Holly. All her worst fears confirmed. There are more photos here, too, on this Indianapolis society blog.”
    â€œBut Dawnelle isn’t even standing next to Howard,” I noted, attempting to find a positive spin on the situation. “She’s over there with her brother, Bubba. She looks a little young for Howard, too.”
    Joe just stared at me in disbelief. “Young? Did you actually just say, ‘She looks a little young for Howard’? Like that’s ever stopped anyone,” he said finally. “Sometimes you worry me, honestly. I mean,